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Great Birnam Wood has come to High Dunsinane Hill. |
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This thing that cannot be, by God's or demons will, |
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has come to pass. Now see men march behind the ghosts of trees |
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And red-handed someone sits: sleeping, tired, and alone |
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Comsumed by fear of her own make. Heart of stone now turned to bone; |
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read hands now only shake; for beneath the trees, the earth doth quake! |
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Though nameless here, she knows her name; and shivers now bereft of grace; |
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and cannot from her mirror turn, for the red has spread from hands to face! |
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And bitter words shall every forked tongue burn, with fires fueled by hate and scorn... |
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Let the trees march ever onward, for in my heart I hold them |
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And I would follow on through endless days and shed my blood to mark the way |
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It was in my childhood, in the hollow: where darkness ruled even day; |
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where quiet solace was under leaves; my heart was hidden amidst the trees |
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The will-o-wisps where dancing there; the willow whispers chanting low; |
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and this is what I heard them sing: Every fallen leaf - an angel's wing |
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Let the cities keep what cities breed, for field and forest, they are holy |
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Let the city embrace the city's brood |
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My heart is hidden amidst the wood |
